 Book 2 Chapter 19 of Robert Falconer by George MacDonald. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Robert Falconer by George MacDonald. Chapter 19 Robert Meditates One lovely evening in the first of the summer, Miss St. John had dismissed him earlier than usual, and he had wandered out for a walk. After a round of a couple of miles he returned by fur wood, through which went a pathway. He had heard Mary St. John say that she was going to see the wife of a laborer who lived at the end of this path. In the heart of the trees it was growing very dusky, but when he came to a spot where they stood away from each other a little space, and the blue sky looked in from above, with one cloud floating in it from which the rose of the sunset was fading, he seated himself on a little mound of moss that had gathered over an ancient stump by the footpath, and drew out his friend's papers. Absorbed in his reading he was not aware of an approach till the rustle of silk startled him. He lifted up his eyes and saw Miss St. John a few yards from him on the pathway. He rose. It's almost too dark to read now, isn't it, Robert? She said. Ah, said Robert. I know this writing so well that I could read it by moonlight. I wish I might read some of it to you. You would like it. May I ask who's it is, then? Poetry, too. It's Mr. Erickson's, but I'm feared he would not like me to read it to anybody but myself, and yet. I don't think he would mind me, returned Miss St. John. I do know him a little. It is not as if I were quite a stranger, you know. Did he tell you not? No, but then he never thought of such a thing. I don't know if it's fair, for they are carelessly written, and there are words and lines here and there that I'm sure he would alter if he cared for them. Then if he doesn't care for them, he won't mind my hearing them. There, she said, seating herself on the stump. You sit down on the grass and read me, one at least. When remember they were never intended to be read, urged Robert, not knowing what he was doing, and so fulfilling his destiny. I will be as jealous of his honor as ever you can wish, answered Miss St. John Gailey. Robert laid himself on the grass at her feet and read. When the storm was proudest and the wind was loudest, I heard the hollow caverns drinking down below. When the stars were bright and the ground was white, I heard the grasses springing underneath the snow. Many voices spake, the river to the lake, the iron-ribbed sky was talking to the sea, and every starry spark made music with the dark, and said how bright and beautiful everything must be. That line, ma'am, remarked Robert, only just scrapped it in, as if he had no intention of leaving it and only set it there to keep room for another, but we'll just go on with the love of it. I ought not to have interrupted it. When the sun was setting, all the clouds were getting beautiful and silvery in the rising moon. Beneath the leafless trees wrangling in the breeze, I could hardly see them for the leaves of June. When the day had ended and the night descended, I heard the sound of screams that I heard not through the day, and every peak afar was ready for a star, and they climbed and rolled around until the morning gray. Then slumber, soft and holy, came down upon me slowly, and I went I know not wither, and I lived I know not how. My glory had been banished, for when I woke it banished, but I waited on its coming, and I am waiting now. There, said Robert Ending, can you make anything of that, Miss St. John? I don't say I can in words, she answered, but I think I could put it all into music. But surely you might have some notion of what it's a boota for, you can do that. Yes, but I have some notion of what it's about, I think. Just lend it to me, and by the time we have our next lesson, you will see whether I'm not able to show you I understand it. I shall take good care of it, she added, with a smile, seeing Robert's reluctance to part with it. It doesn't matter my having it, you know, now that you've read it to me. I want to make you do it justice. But it's quite time I were going home. Besides, I really don't think you can see to read any more. Well, it's better not to try, though, I have them mostly upon my tongue. I might blunder, and that would blod them. Will you let me go home with you? He added in pure, tremulous English. Certainly, if you like, she answered, and they walked towards the town. Robert opened the fountain of his love for Erickson and let it gush like a river from a hillside. He talked on and on about him with admiration, gratitude, devotion. And Miss St. John was glad of the veil of the twilight over her face as she listened. For the boys' enthusiasm trembled through her as the wind threw an aeolian harp. Poor Robert, he did not know, I say, what he was doing, and so was fulfilling his sacred destiny. Bring your manuscripts when you come next, she said. As they walked along, gently adding, I admire your friends versus very much and should like to hear more of them. I'll be sure I can do that, answered Robert in delight that he had found one to sympathize with him in his worship of Erickson, and that one his other idol. When they reached the town, Miss St. John calling to mind its natural propensity to gossip, especially on the evening of a market day when the shopkeepers, their labors over, would be standing in a speculative mood at their doors, surrounded by groups of friends and neighbors, felt shy of showing herself on the square with Robert and proposed that they should part, giving as a by-the-by reason that she had a little shopping to do as she went home. Too simple to suspect the real reason, but with the heart that delighted in obedience, Robert bade her good night at once and took another way. As he passed the door of Merson, the haberdasher shop, there stood William McGregor, the weaver, looking at nothing and doing nothing. We have seen something of him before. He was a remarkable compound of good nature and bad temper. People were generally afraid of him because he had a biting satire at his command, amounting even to wit which found vent inverse. Not altogether despicable, even from a literary point of view. The only person he on his part was afraid of was his own wife. For upon her, from lack of apprehension, his keenest irony fell, as he said, like water on a duck's back, and in respect of her he had, therefore, no weapon of offence to strike terror with all. Her dullness was her defense. He liked Robert. When he saw him, he wakened up, laid hold of him by the button and drew him in. Come in, lad, he said, and take a pinch. I'm waiting for Merson. As he spoke, he took from his pocket his mull, made of the end of a ram's horn and presented it to Robert, who accepted the pledge of friendship. While he was partaking, McGregor drew himself with some effort upon the counter, saying in a half-comical, half-adminatory tone. Wheel, and who is the mathematics, Robert? Private, answered Robert, falling into his good humor. Wheel, that's Vera Wheel. Don't be mind, Robert, who, when he was about the age of odd-year-old, he came to me once at my shop about something your grandmother, honest woman, wanted. And I, by the way, have taken my fun of you, said to you, Robert, you have grown desperate, you're a man clean, you have gotten the briefs on, and says he, I, Mr. McGregor, I want nothing new but a watch and a wife. I dut I've forgotten all about it, Mr. McGregor, answered Robert, but I've made some progress, according to your story. For Dr. Anderson, before I came home, gave me a watch, and a fine crater it is, for it I does its best and say I excuse its shortcomings. There's just a thing, and ne' another, returned the manufacturer, that I cannot excuse in a watch. If a watch goes over fast, you find ute. If she goes over slow, you find ute, and you can, I calculate upon it the correct enough for matters subluminary, as Mr. McClary says. And if a watch stops altogether, you can, it's failing, and you can wear it sticks, and at you says, tut tut, that will have it for a watch. But there's one thing that God nor man cannot buy it in a watch, and that's when it stands still for a bitah, and sign evolves on again, I, I, tick, tick, tick, with a fair face and a lean heart. It would gar you believe it was alright, and time for another tumbler, when it's 12 o'clock and the kirkyard folk thinkin' about risin'. Fags, I had a watch of my father's, and I regarded it with a reverence more like a human beam. The second time it played me that plisky, I den ute its inwards upon the lopin' on stone at the door of the shop. But let the watch sit, where's the wife? You cannot be a man yet, wantin' the wife, by your own statement. The watch came unsought, Mr. McGregor, and I'm thinkin' so malin' the wife, answered Robert Laffing. Preserve me for one from the wife that comes unsought, return the weaver. But my lad, there may be some wives that will not come when they are sought. Preserve me from them, too. No, maybe ye did not can what I mean. But take ye, tent, what you're about. Now ye thinkin' El Cabani las at may like to hold a warp with yeas, just ready to marry yeah, and, when ye say, no madati, an all-more word, Robert, young man, especially braw lads like yourselves, unka ready to fall in love with women, fit to be their mothers, and so ye see. He was interrupted by the entrance of a girl. She had a shawl over her head, not withstanding it was summer weather, and crept in hesitatingly, as if she were not quite at one with herself as to her coming purchase. Approaching a boy behind the counter on the opposite side of the shawl, she asked for something, and he proceeded to serve her. Robert could not help thinking from the one glimpse of her face. He had got through the dust that he had seen her before. Suddenly the vision of an earthen floor with a pool of brown sunlight upon it, bare feet, brown hair, and soft eyes, mingled with a musk odor, wafted from Arabian fairyland, rose before him. It was Jesse Houston. I know that lassie, he said, and moved to get down from the counter on which he too had seated himself. Nene whispered the manufacturer, laying like the ancient mariner, a brown skinny hand in restraint upon Robert's arm. Nene never heed her. You might not spake to El Calas, eh, ye know. Poor thing, she's been doing something wrong to go on slinking a boot in the glum, and like a bat with her plaid over her head, not fast with her. Nonsense, returned Robert with indignation, for force should not I speak to her. She's a decent lassie, a daughter of James Houston, the carter of body-fall. I know her fine. He said this in a whisper, but the girl seemed to hear it, for she left the shop with the perturbation, which the dimness of the late twilight could not conceal. Robert hesitated no longer, but followed her, heedless of the latter expostulations of McGregor. She was speeding away down the street, but he took longer strides than she, and was almost up with her when she drew her shawl closer about her head and increased her pace. Jesse, said Robert in a tone of expostulation, but she made no answer. Her head sunk lower on her bosom, and she hurried yet faster. He gave a long stride or two and laid his hand on her shoulder. She stood still, trembling. Jesse, did not ye know me? Robert Faulkner, did not be feared to me. What's the matter with ye? Ye will not speak to the body. Who is all the folk at home? She burst out crying, cast one look into Robert's face, and fled. What a change was in that face. The peach color was gone from her cheek. It was pale and thin. Her eyes were hollow, with dark shadows under them, the shadows of a sad sunset. A foreboding of the truth arose in his heart, and the tears rushed up into his eyes. The next moment, the thought of Mary St. John moving gracious and strong, clothed in the worship and the dignity which is its own defense, appeared beside that of Jesse Houston, her bowed head shaking with sobs, and her weak limbs urged to ungraceful flight. As if walking in the vision of an eternal truth, he went straight to Captain Forsythe's door. I want to speak to Miss St. John, I see, said Robert. She'll be doing in a minute. But he's not your mistress in the drawing room. I do not want to see her. I will, said the girl, who was almost fresh from the country, just run up the stair and wrap at the door of her room. With the simplicity of a child, for what a girl told him to do must be right, Robert sped up the stair, and his heart going like a fire engine. He had never approached Mary's room from this side, but instinct or something else led him straight to her door. He not. Come in, she said, never doubting it was the maid, and Robert entered. She was brushing her hair by the light of a chamber candle. Robert was seized with awe, and his limbs troubled. He could have kneeled before her, not to beg forgiveness. He did not think of that. But to worship, as a man may worship a woman, it is only a strong pure heart like Robert's that ever can feel all the inroad of the divine mystery of womanhood. But he did not kneel. He had a duty to perform. A flush rose in Miss St. John's face and sank away, leaving it pale. It was not that she thought once of her own condition with her hair loose on her shoulders, but able only to conjecture what had brought him dither, she could not but regard Robert's presence with dismay. She stood with her ivory brush in her right hand uplifted and a great handful of hair in her lap. She was soon relieved, however, although what with his contemplated intercession, the dim vision of Mary's lovely face between the masses of her hair and the lavender odor that filled the room, perhaps also a faint suspicion of impropriety sufficiently give force to the rest. Robert was thrown back into the abyss of his mother tongue, and out of this abyss, talked like a behemoth. Robert said Mary in a tone which had he not been so eager after his end, he might have interpreted as one of displeasure. Eamon Harkin told me, ma'am, when I was Ulta body falled, he began methodically, and Mary bewildered, gave one hasty brush to her handful of hair and again stood still. She could imagine no connection between this meeting and their late parting. When I was Ulta body falled, a summer, I grew acquainted with the Bonnie Lassie there, the daughter of James Houston, and honest cod her with Shakespeare and the Arabian mates upon a shelf, the host within. I got in one day when I was not well and she just ministered to me as none ever did but yourself, ma'am, and she was that kind and motherlike to the wee bit great and barony that she had to take care of because her mother was Ulta with the lay of Sharon. Her face was just like a summer day and will I like it the look of the Lassie. I met her again in the night. You never saw such a change, a white face and nothing but greatened to come Ulta of her. She ran from me as if I had been the devil himself and the thought of you said Bonnie and Strock and Grant came over me. Yielding to a masterful impulse, Robert did kneel now as if the sinner and not mediator, he pressed the handle of her garment to his lips. Did not be angry at me, Miss St. John, he pleaded, but be merciful to the Lassie. What's the helper that can no more look a man in the face but the clear eyed lass that would look the son himself Ulta of the left if he dared to say a word against her? It's all a woman that can uphold another. You can what I mean, and I need not say more. He rose and turned to leave the room. Bewildered and doubtful, Miss St. John did not know what to answer, but felt that she must make some reply. You haven't told me where to find the girl or what you want me to do with her. I'll find where she buys, he said, moving again towards the door. But what am I to do with her, Robert? That's your part. You now find what to do with her. I cannot tell you that, but if I was you, I would give her a kiss to begin with. She's none of your brazen face, Miss St. John. A kiss would be the saving of her. But you may be, but I have nothing to go upon. She would resent my interference. She's past resenting only thing. She was going about the tone like one of the dead at have nothing to say to anybody and nobody anything to say to them. If she goes on like that, she'll not be alive long. That night, Jesse Houston disappeared, a mile or two up the river under a high bank from which the main current had receded, lay an awful swampy place full of reeds except in the middle, where was one round space full of dark water and mud? Near this, Jesse Houston was seen about an hour after Robert had thus fled for her with his angel. The event made a deep impression upon Robert. The last time that he saw them, James and his wife were as cheerful as usual and gave him a hearty welcome. Jesse was in service and doing well, they said. The next time he opened the door of the cottage, it was like the entrance to a haunted tomb. Not a smile was in the place. James's cheeriness was all gone. He was sitting at the table with his head leaning on his hand. His Bible was opened before him, but he was not reading a word. His wife was moving listlessly about. They looked just as Jesse had looked that night as if they had died long ago, but somehow or other could not get into their graves and be at rest. The child Jesse had nursed with such care was toddling about looking rueful with loss. George had gone to America and the whole of the family's joy had vanished from the earth. The subject was not resumed between Ms. St. John and Robert. The next time he saw her, he knew by her pale, troubled face that she had heard the report that filled the town and she knew by a silence that it had indeed referenced the same girl of whom he had spoken to her. The music would not go right that evening. Mary was distraught and Robert was troubled. It was a week or two before there came a change. When the turn did come, over his being love rushed up like a spring tide from the ocean of the infinite, he was accompanying her piano with his violin. He made blunders and her playing was out of heart. They stopped as by consent in a moment's silence followed. All at once she broke out with something Robert had never heard before. He soon found that it was a fantasy upon Erickson's poem. Ever through a troubled harmony ran a silver thread of melody from far away. It was the caverns drinking from the tempest overhead. The grass is growing under the snow. The stars making music with the dark. The streams filling the night with the sounds the day had quenched. The whispering call of the dreams left behind in the fields of sleep. In a word, the central life pulsing in Aeonian peace through the outer ephemeral storms. At length her voice took up the theme. The silvery thread became song and through all the opposing supporting harmonies she led it to the solution of a close in which the only sorrow was in the music itself for its very life is in endless ending. She found Robert kneeling by her side as she turned from the instrument his head dropped over her knee. She laid her hand on his clustering curls he thought herself and left the room. Robert wandered out as in a dream. At midnight he found himself on a solitary hilltop seated in the heather with a few tiny fur leaves about him and the sounds of a wind ethereal as the stars overhead flowing through their branches. He heard the sound of it but it did not touch him. Where was God? In him and his question. And chapter 19, book two, chapter 20 of Robert Falconer by George McDonald. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Robert Falconer by George McDonald. Chapter 20, Erickson loses to Wynn. If Mary St. John had been an ordinary woman and if not withstanding Robert had been in love with her he would have done very little in preparation for the coming session. But although she now possessed him although at times he only knew himself as loving her there was such a mountain air of calm about her such an outgoing divinity of peace such a largely molded harmony of being that he could not love her otherwise than grandly. For her sake, weary with loving her he would yet turn to his work and to be worthy of her or rather for he never dreamed of being worthy of her to be worthy of leave to love her would forget her enough to lay hold of some abstract truth of lines, angles or symbols. A strange way of being in love reader, you think so. I would there were more love like it. The world would be centuries nearer its redemption if a millionth part of the love in it were of the sort. All I insist however on my readers believing is that it showed in a youth like Robert not less but more love than he could go against love's sweetness or the sake of love's greatness. Literally not figuratively Robert would kiss the place where her foot had trod. But I know that once he rose from such a kiss to trace the hyperbole by means of a string. It had been a range between Erickson and Robert in Miss Napier's parlor, the old lady meeting beside that Erickson should start if possible a week earlier than usual and spend the difference with Robert erothadin. But then the old lady had opened her mouth and spoken and I firmly believe the little sign of tenderness passed between them. It was with an elder sister's feeling for Lettie's admiration of the landless Laird that she said as follows. Not you think, Mr. Erickson, it would be but fair to come to us next time. Mr. Swapner, honest lady and long have I known her. It's no so old a friend to you, Mr. Erickson, and herself. Nay offense to her, you know. Anybody cannot be friends to anybody and as long as another, you know. Eat among the loom, Miss Napier interposed Robert. It's only fair. You see, Mr. Erickson, I could see as muckle of you almost the te way as the other. Miss Napier makes me welcome as well as you. And I will make you welcome, Robert, as long as you're good lad as you are and go on day after, nail way. But let me hear what you're doing as so many young gentlemen do, especially when they're taken up by their rich relations and public who, since this is, I'll close the door of it in your face. Bless me, Miss Napier, said Robert. What have I done to set ye at me that gate? Hey, if I did not know what you mean, no more do I, laddie. I have nested against thee, whatever. Only ye see old folk looks ahead and would fame be as sure of what's to come as what's gone. You may not buy for that, I do it, said Robert. Laddie, retorted Miss Napier, ye have more sense, nor ye have only right till. Hold the tongue of thee, Mr. Erickson, to come here and nest. And the old laddie laughed such a good humor into her stocking soul that the foot destined to wear it ought never to have been cold while it lasted. So it was then settled, and a week before Robert was to start for Aberdeen, Erickson walked into the boar's head. Half an hour after that, crooked commel was shown into the gale room with the message to Mr. Robert. Then Mr. Erickson was calm and wanted to see him. Robert pitched Hutton's mathematics onto the floor, sprang to his feet, all but embraced crooked commel on the spot and was deterred only by the perturbed look the man wore. Crooked commel was a very human creature and had no fault but the drink, Miss Napier said, and very little of what he would have had if she had been as active as she was willing. What's the matter, commel? Asked Robert, inconsiderable alarm. Ow, Nathan, sir, returned Camel. What makes you look like that, then, insisted Robert? Ow, Nathan. But when Miss Letty cried doing the clothes upon me, she had her opron till her eye, and I thought something would to be wrong, but I had not the heart to spare. Robert darted to the door and rushed to the end, leaving commel describing EMB on the road behind him. When he reached the boar's head, there was nobody to be seen. He darted up the stair to the room where he had first waded upon Erickson. Three or four maids stood at the door. He asked no questions but went in, a dreadful fear in his heart. Two of the sisters and Dr. Gow stood by the bed. Erickson lay upon it, clear-eyed and still. His cheek was flushed. The doctor looked around as Robert entered. Robert, he said, you must keep your friend here quiet. He's broken a blood vessel. Walk too much, I suppose. He'll be all right soon, I hope, but we can't be too careful. Keep him quiet, that's the main thing. He mustn't speak a word. So saying, he took his leave. Erickson held out his thin hand. Robert grasped it. Erickson's lips moved as if he would speak. Not spake, Mr. Erickson, said Miss Letty, whose tears were flowing unheated down her cheeks. Not spake. We all know what you mean and what you want with that. Then she turned to Robert and said in a whisper, Dr. Gow would not have you sent for, but I knew well enough that he would be all the quieter if you were here. Just give a knock upon the floor if you want anything and I'll be with you in two seconds. The sisters went away. Robert drew a chair beneath the bed and once more was nursed through his friend. The doctor had already blood him at the arm, such was the ordinary mode of treatment then. Scarcely was he seated when Erickson spoke, a smile flickering over his worn face. He said, Do not speak, said Robert in alarm. Do not speak, Mr. Erickson. Nonsense, returned Erickson feebly. They're making a work about nothing. I've done as much 20 times since I saw you last and I'm not dead yet, but I think it's coming. What's coming? Asked Robert, rising in alarm. Nothing, answered Erickson suitably. Only death. I should like to see Miss St. John once before I die. Do you think she would come and see me if I were really dying? I'm sure she would, but if he's spake like this, Miss Letty will not let me come near you no to say her. Oh, Mr. Erickson, if you die, I so not cared to live. But thinking himself that such was not the way to keep Erickson quiet, he repressed his emotion, sat down behind the curtain and was silent. Erickson fell fast asleep. Robert crept from the room and telling Miss Letty that he would return presently went to Miss St. John. How can I go to Aberdeen without him? He thought as he walked down the street. Neither was a guide to the other, but the questioning of two may give just the needful points by which the parallax of the truth may be gained. Mr. Erickson's here, Miss St. John, he said the moment he was shown into her presence. Her face flushed. Robert had never seen her look so beautiful. He's very ill, he added. Her face grew pale, very pale. He asked if I thought you would go and see him. That is, if you were born to die. A sunset flush, but faint as on the clouds of the east, rose over her power. I will go at once, she said, rising. Nay, nay, returned Robert hastily. It has to be managed. It's no to be done all in a hurry. For one thing, there's Dr. Gow says he might not speak a word. And for another, there's Miss Letty, who'll just be like a watchdog to hold anybody or from him. When mom died, we're time. But if he say I'm gone, then I'll contend him with the mean time. I'll tell him, I will go any moment, she said. Is he very ill? I'm afraid he is. I do, I'll have to go on to Aberdeen, we're talking. A week after, though he was better, his phone was out of the question. Robert wanted to stay with him, but he would not hear of it. He would follow in a week or so, he said, and Robert must start fair with the rest of the semis. But all the removal he was ever able to bear was to the red room, the best in the house, opening as I have already mentioned, from an outside stair in the archway. They'd put up a great screen inside the door, and there the lameless layered lay like a lord. And chapter 20. Book two, chapter 21 of Robert Falconer by George McDonald. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Robert Falconer by George McDonald. Chapter 21, Shargara Spires. Robert's heart was dreary when he got on the box seat of the male coach at Rothedon. It was yet drearier when he got down at the Royal Hotel in the street of Bonacord, and it was dreariest of all when he turned his back on Erickson's and entered his own room at Mrs. Fivies. Shargara had met him at the coach. Robert had scarcely a word to say to him, and Shargara felt as dreary as Robert when he saw him sit down and lay his head on the table without a word. What's the matter with you, Robert? He faltered out at last. If you did not spake to me, I'll cut my throat out, will faith. Hold your tongue with your nonsense, Shargara, Mr. Erickson's dean. Oh Lord, said Shargara, and said nothing more for the space of 10 minutes. Then he spoke again slowly and sententiously. He had not you to take care of him, Robert. Where is he? At the boar's head. That's Will. He'll be looking after there. A body would like to have their own hand in it, Shargara. Aye, I wish we had him here again. The eyes of trouble thus broken, the stream of talk flowed more freely. Who are you getting on at the school, man, asked Robert. Nay that ill answered Shargara. I was at the head of my class yesterday for five minutes. And who did you like it? Man, it was fine. I thought I was a gentleman all at once. Hold ye at it, man, said Robert, as if from the height of age and experience, and maybe you will be a gentleman some day. Is it possible, Robert, a crater like me grow into a gentleman, said Shargara with wide eyes. What for, no, returned Robert. Ah, man, said Shargara. He stood up, sat down again, and was silent. For on thing, resumed Robert after a pause during which he had been pondering upon the possibilities of Shargara's future. For on thing, I do it whether Dr. Anderson would have taken on a fash oboe ye if he had not thought ye had the makin' of a gentleman in ye. Ah, man, said Shargara. He stood up again, sat down again, and was finally silent. Next day, Robert went to see Dr. Anderson and told him about Erickson. The doctor shook his head, as doctors have done in such cases, from escalapius downwards. Robert pressed no further questions. Will he be takin' care of where he is, asked the doctor. Good care of, answered Robert. Has he any money, do you think? I have made doubt he has some, for he's been teachin' all the summer. The lack of him mount and will work whether they're fit or no. Well, at all events, you write Robert, and give him the hint that he's not to fash himself about money, for I have more than he'll want. And you may just take the hint yourself at the same time, Robert, my boy, he added in, if possible, a yet kinder tone. Robert's way of showing gratitude was the best way of all. He returned kindness with faith. If I be an only want, doctor, I'll just run to ye at once. And if I want or a muckle, ye mount just say nay. That's a good fellow. You take things as a body means them. But have ye enough than ye would like me to do for ye this session, sir? No, I won't have you do anything but your own work. You have more to do than you had last year. Mind your work, and as often as you get tired over your books, shut them up and come to me. You may bring Shargar with you sometimes, but we must take care and not make too much of him all at once. Aye, aye, doctor. But he's a fine crater, Shargar, and I did not think he'll be that easy to blod. What do you think he's turning or in that redhead of his no? I can't tell that, but there's something to come out of the redhead, I do believe. What is he thinking of? Whether it be possible for him ever to be a gentleman, no, I take that for a good sign in the likes of him. No doubt of it, what did you say to him? I tell him at who I did not think you would have taken so muckl-fash if he had not had some hopes of the kind about him. You said well, tell him from me that I expect him to be a gentleman, and by the way, Robert, do try a little, as I think I said to you once before, to speak English. I don't mean that you should give up, Scotch, you know. Wheel, sir, I have been trying, but what am I to do when you spake to me as if you were my own father? I cannot mind upon a word of English when you do that. Dr. Anderson laughed, but his eyes glittered. Robert found Shargar busy over his Latin version. With the wheeled Shargar, he took his books and sat down. A few moments after, Shargar lifted his head, stared a while at Robert, and then said, do you rarely think it, Robert? Think what? What are you hovering at, you gout? Do you think that I ever could grow into a gentleman? Dr. Anderson says he expects it of you. Echman, a long pause followed, and Shargar spoke again. Who am I to begin, Robert? Begin what? To be a gentleman. Robert scratched his head, like Brutus, and at length became oracular. Spake the truth, he said. I'll do that, but what about my father? Nobody'll cast up your father to you. You need have no fear of that. My mother, then, suggested Shargar with hesitation. You might hold your face to the fact. Aye, aye, but if they said anything you know about her. If only man body says a word again, your mother, you might just knock him down upon the spot. But I might not be able. You could try, anyway. He might knock me down, you know. Well, I'll go, doin' then. Aye. This was all the instruction Robert ever gave Shargar in the duties of a gentleman, and I doubt whether Shargar sought further enlightenment by direct question of anyone. He worked harder than ever, grew cleanly in his person, even to fastidiousness, tried to speak English, and a wonderful change gradually but rapidly passed over his outer man. He grew taller and stronger, and as he grew stronger, his legs grew straighter, till the defect of approximating knees, the consequence of hardship all but vanished. His hair became darker, and the albino looked less remarkable, though still he would remind one of a vegetable grown in a cellar. Dr. Anderson thought it well that he should have another year at the grammar school before going to college. Robert now occupied Erickson's room and left his own to Shargar. Robert heard every week from Ms. St. John about Erickson. Her reports varied much, but on the whole he got a little better as the winter went on. She said that the good women at the boar's head paid him every attention. She did not say that almost the only way to get him to eat was to carry him delicacies, which she had prepared with her own hands. She had soon overcome the jealousy with which Ms. Letty regarded her interest in their guest, and before many days had passed, she would walk into the artsway and go up to his room without seeing anyone, except the sister whom she generally found there. By what gradations their intimacy grew, I cannot inform my reader. For on the events lying upon the boundary of my story, I have received very insufficient enlightenment, but the result, it is easy to imagine. I have already hinted at an early disappointment of Ms. St. John. She had grown greatly since and her estimate of what she had lost had altered considerably in consequence. But the change was more rapid after she became acquainted with Erickson. She would most likely have found the young man she thought she was in love with in the days gone by, a very common place person now. The heart which she had considered dead to the world had, even before that stormy night in the old house, begun to expostulate against its owner's mistake by asserting a fair indifference to that portion of its past history. And now, to her large nature, the simplicity, the suffering, the patience, the imagination, the grand poverty of Erickson were irresistibly attractive. Add to this that she became his nurse and soon saw he was not indifferent to her. And if she fell in love with him as only a full-grown woman can love, without Erickson's lips saying anything that might not by love's jealousy be interpreted as only a grateful affection, why should she not? And what of Marjorie Lindsay? Erickson had not forgotten her, but the brightest star must grow pale as the sun draws near. And on Erickson, there were two sons rising at once on the low sea shore of life, whereon he had been pacing up and down moodily for three and 20 years, listening ever more to the unprogressive rise and fall of the tidal waves, all talking of the eternal, all unable to reveal it, the son of love and the son of death. Maisie and he had never met. She pleased his imagination, she touched his heart with her helplessness, but she gave him no welcome to the shrine of her beauty. He loved her through admiration and pity. He broke no faith to her, for he had never offered her any saving looks, and she had not accepted it. She was but a sickly plant grown in a hot house. On his deathbed, he found a woman, a hiding place from the wind, a covert from the tempest, the shadow of a great rock in a weary land. A strong she-angel with mighty wings, Mary St. John came behind him as he fainted out of life, tempered the burning heat of the son of death, and laid him to sleep in the cool twilight and for glorious shadow. In the stead of trouble about a willful, thoughtless girl, he found repose and protection and motherhood in a strong-hearted woman. For Eric's sake, Robert made some effort to preserve the acquaintance of Mr. Lindsay and his daughter, but he could hardly keep up a conversation with Mr. Lindsay, and Lindsay showed herself utterly indifferent to him even in the way of common friendship. He told her of Eric's illness. She said she was sorry to hear it and looked miles away. He could never get within a certain atmosphere of what shall I call it, a vertedness that surrounded her. She had always lived in a dream of unrealities and the dream had almost devoured her life. One evening, Shargar was later than usual in coming home from the walk, or ramble rather, without which he could never settle down to his work. He knocked at Robert's door. Where do you think I've been, Robert? Who should I know, Shargar, answered Robert, puzzling over a problem? I've been having a glass with Jock Mitchell. What's Jock Mitchell? My brother Sandy's groom, as I tell to you for. Did not think I could mind all your havers, Shargar. Why was the common gentleman when you go to drink with a chilled like that? What if my memory serves me? You told me yourself was in the midst of his master's devoury. Your memory serves you well enough to be doing upon me, said Shargar. But there's a bit warty at day read at the Cathedral Kirk the last Sunday, at stuck to me as if there was something bi-ordinary in it. What's that, asked Robert, pretending to go on with his calculations all the time. Ow, nay, Mockle, only this. Judge not that you be not judged. I took a lesson from Jack, the giant killer, with the Welsh giant. Was it Blunderbore, they called him, and poured the most of my glass to my breast. It was not like ink. It would not do my sark only ill. But what made you go on with him at all? He was not fit company for a gentleman. A gentleman some soft if he be only the war of the company he goes on until. There may be reasons, you know. You need not do as they do. Jack Mitchell was Aaron Reed Rory and Black Geordie. And says I, for I wanted to know whether I was such a broom bush as I used to be. Says I, who are you, Jack Mitchell? And says Jack Brawley. What the devil are you? And says I, name more of a devil nor yourself, Jack Mitchell or Alexander Baron Rothy either. Though maybe that's no little of one. Preserve me, cried Jack. It's Shagar. Name more of that, Jack says I. If I be not a gentleman, or I'll be done. And there I stacked for I saw I was a Mockle fool to let Oot anything of the kind of Jack. And so he seemed to think too, for he break Oot with the great guffaw. And to win over it I dwind him and laugh as if Nathan was farther off from my thoughts than ever being a gentleman. Where do you put up, Jack? I said. Would buy here, he answered, at Lucky Maitland's. That's a queer place for a Baron to put up, Jacks, says I. There's a reason, says he, and lays his forefinger upon the side of his nose, of where there was hardly enough to hold it on, gone until the opposite. We're no far from there, says I. Indeed, I can hardly tell you, Robert, what made me say so. But I just wanted to know what the gentleman brother of mine was after. Take the horse home, says I. I'll just help upon Black Geordie and we'll have a glass together. I'll stay and treat. Say he go, me the bridle, and I lap on. The devil tried to get a mouth full of my hip, of faith. I was over-swacked for him, in a way we read. I did not know you could ride, Shargar. Hutz, I could not help it. I was I taking the horse to the water at the boar's head, or the royal oak, or Lucky Hapitz, or the octan furty. That's why I came to know Jacks say well. We were good enough friends when I did not care for lean or swearing and stitch-like. And what on earth did you want with him, Newell? I tell you, I wanted to know what that ne'er-do-well brother of mine was after. I had seen the horses standing about twar three times in the glomen, and Sandy Mountain be a boat ill if he be a boat anything. What can it matter to you, Shargar, what a man like him is a boat? Well, you see, Robert, my mother, I brought me up to know all at folk was a boat. For she said you could never tell when it might turn to the wheel far of your advantage. Grand words, I wonder why she foregathered with them. But she was a terrible woman, my mother, and knew a heap of things. More nor it was good to know, maybe. She go to boat the country, say muckle, and they say the gypsies she guide among a dreadful old folks and have the wisdom of the Egyptians at Moses would have nothing to do with. Why is she new? I do not know, she may turn up on a day. There's a thing though, Shargar, if you want to be a gentleman, you might not go on Keakin that way until other folks affairs. Well, I might give it up. I will not say a word of what Jack Mitchell tellt me about Lord Sandy. Oh, say away. Nay, nay, you would not like to hear about other folks affairs. My mother tellt me he did very ill after Waterloo till a stranger last at Brussels. But that's neither here nor there. I'm out set to boat my version or I will not get it doing the night. What is Lord Sandy after? What did the rascal tell you? Why do you make such a mystery of it? Said Robert authoritatively and in his best English. Tita could not make nothing of him. He winked and he hinted and he gave me to understand that the devil was after some lass or either. But what? My lad was as dumb as the graveyard about that. If I could only win at that maybe I could play him a plisky. But he cooped it or three glasses of wasky and the more he drank the less he would say and say I left him. Well, take care of what you're about, Shargar. I don't think Dr. Anderson would like you to be in such company, said Robert. And Shargar departed to his own room and his version. Towards the end of the session Miss St. John reports of Erickson were worse. Yet he was very hopeful himself and thought he was getting better fast. Every relapse he regarded as temporary and when he got a little better thought he had recovered his original position. It was summer leave to Miss St. John to communicate her anxiety to Robert. After the distribution of prizes of which he gained three Robert went the same evening to visit Dr. Anderson intending to go home the next day. The doctor gave him five golden sovereigns a rare sight in Scotland. Robert little thought in what service he was about to spend them. And Chapter 21 Book 2 Chapter 22 of Robert Falconer by George MacDonald. This Libra Vox recording is in the public domain. Robert Falconer by George MacDonald Chapter 22 Robert in action. It was late when he left his friend as he walked through the Gallo gate an ancient narrow street full of low courts. Someone touched him upon the arm. He looked around. It was a young woman. He turned again to walk on. Mr. Faulkner, she said in a trembling voice which Robert thought he had heard before. He stopped. I don't know you, he said. I can't see your face. Tell me who you are. She returned no answer but stood with her head aside. He could see that her hand shook. What do you want with me if you won't say who you are? I want to tell you something, she said. But I cannot spake here. Come with me. I won't go with you without knowing who you are or where you're going to take me. Do not you know me? She said pitifully turning a little towards the light of the gas lamp and looking up in his face. It cannot be Jesse Houston, said Robert, his heart swelling at the side of the pale, worn countenance of the girl. I was Jesse Houston aunts, she said, but nobody here knows me by that name but your cell. Will you come in? There's no crater in the house but my cell. Robert turned at once. Go on, he said. She led the way up a narrow stone stair between two houses, that door high up in the gable admitted them. The board spent so much under his weight that Robert feared the floor would fall. By thee there, sir, till I fess alight, she said. This was Robert's first introduction to a phase of human life with which he became familiar afterwards. Mind who are you gone, sir? She resumed returning with the candle. There's no flooring there. Hold in the middle after me or you'll gone throw. She led him into a room with nothing in it but a bed, a table, and a chair. On the table was a half-made shirt. In the bed lay a tiny baby fast asleep. It had been locked up alone in the dreary garret. Robert approached to look at the child for his heart felt very warm to poor Jesse. A bonny bernie, he said. It's not he, sir. Think of him coming to me. Nobody can tell the mercy of it. It's not it strange that the very sin should bring an angel from heaven upon the back of it to uphold and restore the sinner. Folk think it's a punishment but, ah, me, it's a merciful one. It's a wonder he did not think shame to come to me, but he came to bear my shame. Robert wondered at her words. She talked of her sin with such a meek openness. She looked her shame in the face and acknowledged it hers. Had she been less weak and worn perhaps, she could not have spoken thus. But what am I a boot? She said, checking herself. I did not fessy here to speck a boot myself. He's after more mischief and if anything could be done to hold him from it. What's after mischief Jesse interrupted Robert? Lord Rothy, he's gone off the night and skipper a hornbeck's boat to Antwerp. I think they call it. And a Bonnie young lady with him, they were to sail with the first of the moon-elect. Surely I'm now or late, she added, going to the window. Now the moon cannot be up yet. Now, said Robert, I don't think she rises my color for 12 o'clock in the night. But who know ye? Are ye sure of it? It's an awful thing to think of. To convince you, I'm on just tell you the truth. The horse we're in has not a good character. We're middlin' decent up here, but the floor of the place is dreadful. F for the Bonnie lays of body fall. If you see my father tell him I'm none war than I was. They think you'd ruin it in the dire spot, as they call it. There I am again, she said, miles away and no time to be lost. My lord has a man they call Mitchell. Oh well, I know him. There's a woman doing the stare as he comes to see walls. And twar three nights ago, I heard them laughing together. Say I harkened. There were both some drunk, I'm thinking. I could not tell you all at they said. That's a punishment, though, if you like, to see and hear the worst of ye own ill-doens. He tell the limmer a heap of his lord's secrets. I he tell her about me and who I had gone and dreamt myself. I could hear most ilk a word at he said. For you see the floor in here is no very soon. And I was just at I could not help harkening. My lord's off the next, as I tell ye. It's a queer way, but a quiet, he thinks, ne do it. If anybody would but tell her who Bonnie in the barns made sore with Graydon. But who's that to be done, said Robert? I did not know, but I have been watching to see you ever since sign. I have seen you go and buy money a time. You're the only man I know at I could spake to the booted. You might not think what you can do. The worst of it is I cannot tell what she is or what she buys. In that case I cannot see what's to be done. Could not you watch them aboard and slip a letter into their hand? Or you could give it to the skipper to give her. I know the skipper wheel enough. He's a respectable man. If he knew what the Baron was after he would not take him on board. That would do little good. He would only have her off some other way. We'll sit Robert Rising all away home and think about it as I go. Would you take a few shillings from an old friend, he added with hesitation, putting his hand in his pocket? Nah, no, Bobby, she answered. Nobody's so say it was for myself I brought you here. Come after me and mind where you put doing your feet. It's no sicker. She led him to the door. He bade her good night. Take care you did not fall go and doon the stair. It's most as steep as all way. As Robert came from between the houses he caught a glimpse of a man in a groom's dress going in at the street door of that he had left. All the natural nighthood in him was roused. But what could he do? To write was a sneaking way. He would confront the Baron. The Baron and the girl would both laugh at him. The sole conclusion he could arrive at was to consult Shargar. He lost no time in telling him the story. I told you he was up to some devoury or elder, said Shargar. I can show you the very hoose he might be going to take her from. You wretch. What foe did not you tell me that a foe? You would not hear about other foe's affairs. Nah, not you, but some foe has no right to consideration. The very stones they sail crawl to ill secrets like brother sand is. What's hoose is it? I did not can. I only saw him come out of it once and Jock Mitchell was holding like Jordy rune the nook. It cannot be far from Mr. Lenses at you and Mr. Erickson used to go to. Come and let me see it directly, cried Robert. Starting up with the terrible foreboding at his heart. They were in the street in a moment. Shargar led the way by a line to the top of the hill on the right. And then turning to the left brought him to some houses standing well apart from each other. It was a region unknown to Robert. They were the backs of the houses of which Mr. Lenses was one. This is the hoose, said Shargar. Robert rushed into it. He knocked at the door. Mr. Lenses Jenny opened it. Is your Mr. Sin Jenny? He asked at once. Nah, I. The master's gone to Boris Castle. It's Miss Lindsay I want to see. She's up in her own room with the sick headache. Robert looked her hard in the face and knew she was lying. I want to see her very particular, he said. Well, you cannot see her return Jenny angrily. I'll tell her on a thing you like. Concluding that little was to be gained by longer parlay but quite uncertain whether Maize was in the house or not, Robert turned to Shargar, took him by the arm and walked away in silence. When they were beyond your side of Jenny who stood looking after them. You're sure that's the hoose, Shargar, said Robert quietly. It sure is death and may be sure for I saw him come out with my own eyes. We as Shargar, it's grown something awful new. It's Miss Lindsay was there ever such a villain as that Lord Rothy, that brother of yours. I'd disown him from this very war, said Shargar solemnly. Something might on be done. We'll away to the wharf and see what'll turn up. I wonder who's the tide. The tide's rising. They'll never try to ruin a wood till it's slack water. For by it the amp fit trite. For as bred she is and her bows modeled after the cheeks of the resurrection cherub upon a grave stand draws a heap of water and the bar this is worse to win or nor usual. It's been gathering again. As they spoke the boys were making for the new town eagerly. Just opposite where the amp fit trite lay was a public house. Into that they made up their minds to go and there to write a letter which they would give to Miss Lindsay if they could. Or if not leave with Skipper horned back. Before they reached the river a thick rain of minute drops began to fall. They were rendering the night still darker so that they could scarcely see the vessels from the pavement on the other side of the wharf along which they were hurrying to avoid the cables. Rings and stones posts that made its margin dangerous in the dim light. When they came to the smack in they crossed right over to reach the amp fit trite. A growing fear kept them silent as they approached her birth. It was empty. They turned and stared at each other in dismay. One of those amphibious animals that loitered about the borders of the water was seated on a stone smoking. Probably fortified against the rain by the whiskey inside him. Where's the amp fit trite Alan asked Sargar for Robert was dumb with disappointment and rage. Have to understand Hive by this time I'm thinking answered Alan. For a brewing tub like her she fumbles away and nail with elect win a stern of her. But I'm due to the force she gets across the heron pot her fine passengers will get at the bottom of their stomachs. It's like to blow a bonnet full and she rose out awful and only win. I did not think she could capsize but for Wombland she's worn or a Baron with the grips. In absolute helplessness the boys had let him talk on. There was nothing more to be done and Alan was in a talkative mood. Fags if would come on the blow he resumed. I would not wonder if they got the skipper to set them ashore at Stainhive. I heard old horny say something about lying to therefore a bit to take a keg or something aboard. The boys looked at each other bait Alan good night and walked away. Who fires it to Stonehaven Sargar? Said Robert. I did not rock-fully know. Maybe from 12 to 15 miles. Robert stood still. Sargar saw his face pale as death and contorted with the efforts to control his feelings. Sargar he said what am I to do? I vowed to Mr. Erickson that if he died I would look after that Bonnie Lassie and knew when he's lying all butt dead I have let her slip through my fingers with clean carelessness. What am I to do? If I could only get to Stonehaven before the Amphitrite I could go aboard with the keg and if I could do nothing more I would have tried to do my best. If I do nothing my heart will break with the weight of my shame. Sargar burst into a roar of laughter. Robert was on the point of knocking him down but took him by the throat as a milder proceeding and shook him. Robert, Robert, gurgled Sargar as soon as his choking had overcome his merriment. You're an awful Highland man, harken to me. A bad keg. You're pardoned. What I was thinking of was Robert relaxed his hold but Sargar not withstanding the lesson Robert had given him could hardly speak yet for the enjoyment of his own device. If we could only get rid of Chuck Mitchell he crowed and burst out again. He's with a woman in the Gallagate said Robert. Loshman exclaimed Sargar and started off at full speed. He was no match for his companion, however. Where the devil are you running to, you scarecrow? Painted Robert as he laid hold of his collar. Let me go, Robert, gassed Sargar. Loshman, you'll be on Black Jordy in another 10 minutes and me behind you upon Rerory. And Faith, if we be not at Stanhive before the Dutchman with his bottom foremost it'll be the fault of the horse and no of the men. Robert's heart gave a bound of hope. Who will you get them, Sargar? He asked eagerly. Steal them, answered Sargar, struggling to get away from the grasp still upon his collar. What might be hanged for that? Wheel, Robert, I'll take all the white of it. If it had not been for you I might have been hanged by this time for ill doing. For your sake, I'll be hanged for a wheel doing and welcome, come away. To steal a marriage upon brother Sandy with eight horse hooves of his own. Ha, ha, ha. They sped along now running themselves out of breath, now walking themselves into it again until they reached the retired hostelry between the two towns. Warning Robert not to show himself, Sargar disappeared around the corner of the house. Robert grew weary and then anxious. At length, Sargar's face came through the darkness. Robert, he whispered, give us your cap. I'll be with you in a moment, no. Robert obeyed too anxious to question him. In about three minutes more, Sargar reappeared leading what seemed the ghost of a black horse. For Robert could see only his eyes and his hoofs made scarcely any noise. How he had managed it with the horse of black Jordy's temper, I do not know. But some horses will let some persons do anything with them. He had drawn his own stockings over his forefeet and tied their two caps upon his hind hooves. Lead him away quietly up the road till I come to you, said Sargar, as he took the mufflins off the horse's feet. And mind it, he does not take a nip of you. He's some ill-forbidden. I'll be after you directly. Rory saddled and bridled. He only wants his carpet shunned. Robert led the horse a few hundred yards away and then stopped and waited. Sargar soon joined him, already mounted on Red Roderick. Here's your cap, Robert. It's some foul, I do it. But I could not help it. Go on, man, up with you. Maybe I would have better keep it Jordy myself. But you can ride. Once you're on, he cannot bite you. But Robert needed no encouragement from Sargar. In his present mood, he would have mounted a griffin. He was on horseback in a moment. They tried to gently through the streets and out of the town. Once over the D, they gave their horses the rain and off they went through the dark drizzle. Before they got halfway, they were wet to the skin but little did Robert or Sargar either care for that. Not many words passed between them. Who do you get the horses in again, Sargar asked Robert. Before I get them back, answered Sargar, they'll be tired enough to go home of themselves. If we had only had the luck to meet Jock, that would have been grand. What for that? I would have called Red Rory or the head of him and left him lean to course villain. The horses never fly till they drew up in the main street of Stonehaven. Robert ran down to the harbor to make inquiry and left Sargar to put them up. The moon had risen but the air was so full of vapor that she only succeeded in melting the darkness a little. The sea rolled in front, awful in its dreariness under just light enough to show a something unlike the land. But the rain had ceased and the air was clear. Robert asked a solitary man with a telescope in his hand whether he was looking out for the amphitrite. The man asked him gruffly and returned what he knew of her. Possibly the nature of the keg to be put on board had something to do with his scotch reply. Robert told him he was a friend of the captain, had missed the boat and would give anyone five shillings to put him on board. The man went away and returned with the companion. After some further questioning and bargaining, they agreed to take him. Robert loitered about the pier full of impatience. Sargar joined him. Day began to break over the waves. They gleamed with the blue-gray leaden sheen. The man appeared coming along the harbor and descended by a stair into a little skiff where a barrel or something like one lay under a tarpaulin. Robert bade Sargar goodbye and followed. They pushed off, rode out into the bay and lay on their oars, waiting for the vessel. The light grew apace and Robert fancied he could distinguish the two horses with one rider against the sky on the top of the cliffs moving northwards. Turning his eyes to the sea, he saw the canvas of the brig and his heart beat fast. The man bent to their oars. She drew nearer and lay too. When they reached her, he caught the rope the sailors threw, was on board in a moment and went aft to the captain. The Dutchman stared. In a few words, Robert made him understand his object, offering to pay for his passage, but the good man would not hear of it. He told him that the lady and gentleman had come on board his brother and sister. The Baron was too knowing to run his head into the noose of Scotch law. I cannot throw him over the board, said the skipper, and what am I to do? I am afraid it is of no use. Ah, poor thing. By this time the vessel was underway, the wind freshened. Myse had been ill ever since they left the mouth of the river. Now she was much worse. Before another hour passed, she was crying to be taken home to her papa. Still the wind increased and the vessel labored much. Robert never felt better, and if it had not been for the cause of his seafaring, would have thoroughly enjoyed it. He put on some seagoing clothes of the captains and set himself to take his share in working the brig, in which he was soon proficient enough to be useful. When the sun rose, they were in a tossing wilderness of waves. With the sunrise, Robert began to think he had been guilty of a great folly. For what could he do? How was he to prevent the girl from going off with her lover the moment they landed, but his poor attempt would verify his willingness? The Baron came on deck now and then, looking bored. He had not calculated on having to nurse the girl. Had Mize been well, he could have amused himself with her, for he found her ignorance interesting. As it was, he felt injured and indeed disgusted at the result of the experiment. On the third day, the wind abated a little, but towards night it blew hard again, and it was not until they reached the smooth waters of the skelter that Mize made her appearance on deck, looking dreadfully ill and altogether like a miserable unhappy child. Her beauty was greatly gone and Lord Rothy did not pay her much attention. Robert had, as yet, made no attempt to communicate with her, for there was scarcely a chance of her concealing a letter from the Baron. But as soon as they were in smooth water, he wrote one, telling her in the simplest language that the Baron was a bad man who had amused himself by making many women fall in love with him and then leaving them miserable. He knew one of them himself. Having finished his letter, he began to look abroad over the smooth water and the land smooth as the water. He saw tall poplars, the spires of the forest, and rows of round-headed, dumpy trees like domes. And he saw that all the buildings, like churches, had either spires like poplars or low-round domes like those other trees. The domes gave an eastern aspect to the country. The Spire Antwerp Cathedral, especially, had the poplar for its model. The pinnacles, which arose from the base of each successive start of its narrowing height, were just the clinging, upright branches of the poplar, a lovely instance of art following nature's suggestion. And Chapter 22, Book II, Chapter 23 of Robert Falconer by George McDonald. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Robert Falconer by George McDonald. Chapter 23, Robert Finds a New Instrument. At length, the vessel lay alongside the quay, and as Maize stepped from its side, the skipper found an opportunity of giving her Robert's letter. It was the poorest of chances, but Robert could think of no other. She started on receiving it, but regarding the skipper's significant gestures, put it quietly away. She looked anything but happy for her illness had deprived her of courage and probably roused her conscience. Robert followed the pair, saw them enter the great laborer. What could the name mean? Could it mean good shepherd? And turned away helpless, objectless indeed, for he had done all that he could, and that all was of no potency. A world of innocence and beauty was about to be hurled from its orbit of light into the blackness of outer chaos. He knew it and was unable to speak word or due deed that should frustrate the power of a devil who so loved himself that he counted it an honor to a girl to have him for her ruin. Her afterlife had no significance for him, save as a trophy of his victory. He never perceived that such victory was not yielded to him, that he gained it by putting on the garments of light, that if his inward form had appeared in its own ugliness, not one of the women whose admiration he had secured would not have turned from him as from the monster of an old tale. Robert wandered about till he was so weary that his head ached with weariness. At length he came upon the open space before the cathedral, whence the poplar's spire rose aloft into a blue sky, flacked with white clouds. It was near sunset and he could not see the sun, but the upper half of the spire shone glorious in its radiance. From the top his eyes sank to the base. In the base was a little door half open. Might not that be the lowly narrow entrance through the shadow up to the sun-filled air? He drew near with a kind of tremor, for never before had he gazed upon visible grandeur growing out of the human soul in the majesty of everlastingness, a tree of the Lord's planting. Where had been but an empty space of air and light and darkness had risen and had stood for ages, a mighty wonder awful to the eye, solid to the hand. He peeped through the opening of the door. There was the foot of a stir, marvelous as the ladder of Jacob's dream. Turning away towards the unknown, he pushed the door and entered. A man appeared and barred his advance. Robert put his hand in his pocket and drew out some silver. The man took one piece, looked at it, turned it over, put it in his pocket and led the way up the stair. Robert followed and followed and followed. He came out of the stone walls upon an airy platform whence the spire ascended heavenwards. His conductor led upwards still and he followed winding within a spiral network of stone through which all the world looked in, another platform and yet another spire springing from its basement. Still up they went and at length stood on a circle of stone surrounding like a coronet, the last base of the spire which lifted its apex untrodden. Then Robert turned and looked below. He grasped the stones before him. The loneliness was awful. There was nothing between him and the roofs of the houses, 400 feet below but the spot where he stood. The whole city with its red roofs lay under him. He stood up lifted on the genius of the builder and the town beneath him was a toy. The all but featureless flat spread 40 miles on every side and the roofs of the largest buildings below were as dovecotts. But the space between was alive with awe, so vast, so real. He turned and descended winding through the network of stone which was all between him and space. The object of the architect must have been to melt away the material from before the eyes of the spirit. He hung in the air in a cloud of stone. As he came in his descent within the ornaments of one of the basements he found himself looking through two thicknesses of stone lace on the nearing city. Down there was the beast of prey and his victim but for the moment he was above the region of sorrow. His weariness and his headache had vanished utterly. With his mind tossed on its own speechless delight he was slowly descending still when he saw on his left hand a doorjar. He would look what mystery lay within. A push opened it. He discovered only a little chamber lined with wood. In the center stood something, a bench-like piece of furniture plain and worn. He advanced the step, peered over in the top of it, saw keys white and black, saw petals below. It was an organ. Two strides brought him in front of it. A wooden stool polished and hollowed with centuries of use was before it. But where was the bellows? That might be down hundreds of steps below for he was halfway only to the ground. He seated himself musingly and struck as he thought a dumb chord. Responded up in the air far overhead a mighty booming clang. Startled, almost frightened, even as if Mary St. John had said she loved him, Robert sprang from the stool and, without knowing why, moved only by the chastity of delight flung the door to the post. It banged and clicked. Almost mad with the joy of the titanic instrument he seated himself again at the keys and plunged into a tempest of clanging harmony. 100 bells hang in that temple of wonder, an instrument for a city, nay, for a kingdom. Often had Robert dream that he was the galvanic center of a thunder cloud of harmony, flashing off from every finger the willed lightning tone. Such was the unexpected scale of this instrument. So far loft in the sunny air rang the responsive notes that his dream appeared almost realized. The music, like a fountain bursting upwards, drew him up and bore him aloft. From the resounding cone of bells overhead he no longer heard their tones proceed but saw level-winged forms of light speeding off with a message to the nations. It was only his roused fantasy, but a sweet tone is nevertheless a messenger of God and a right harmony and sequence of such tones is a little gospel. At length he found himself following till that moment unconsciously, the chain of tunes he well remembered having played on his violin, the night he went first with Erickson to see Maisie, ending with his strange chant about the witch lady and the dead man's hand. Erickson had finished the last, his passion had begun to fold its wings and he grew dimly aware of a beating at the door of the solitary chamber in which he sat. He knew nothing of the enormity of which he was guilty, presenting unsought the city of Antwerp with a glorious fantasia. He did not know that only upon grand solemn worldwide occasions such as a king's birthday or a ball at the Hotel de Vie was such music on the card. When he flung the door to it had closed with the spring lock and for the last quarter of an hour, three gen darms commanded by the sacristan of the tower had been thundering there at. He waited only to finish the last notes of the wild orcadian chant and open the door. He was seized by the collar, dragged down the stair into the street and through a crowd of wandering faces, poor unconscious streamer. It will not do to think on the house top even and you had been dreaming very loud indeed in the church spire away to the bureau of the police. And chapter 23, book two, chapter 24 of Robert Falconer by George McDonald. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Robert Falconer by George McDonald. Chapter 24, death. I need not recount the proceedings of the Belgian police, how they interrogated Robert concerning a letter from Mary St. John which they found in an inner pocket, how they looked doubtful over a copy of Horace that they lay in his coat and put evidently a momentous question about some algebraical calculations on the flyleaf of it. Fortunately or unfortunately, I do not know which. Robert did not understand a word they said to him. He was locked up and left to fret for nearly a week. Though what he could have done had he been at liberty, he knew as little as I know. At last, long after it was useless to make any inquiry about Miss Lindsay, he was said at liberty. He could just pay for a steerage passage to London once he wrote to Dr. Anderson for a supply and was in Aberdeen a few days after. This was Robert's first cosmopolitan experience. He confided the whole affair to the doctor who approved of all saying it could have been of no use, but he had done right. He advised him to go home at once for he had had letters inquiring after him. Erickson was going steadily worse. In fact, he feared Robert might not see him alive. If this news struck Robert to the heart, his pain was yet not without some poor alleviation. He need not tell Erickson about Miss Lindsay, but might leave him to find out the truth when free of a dying body, he would be better able to bear it. That very night he set off on foot for Rothenin. There was no coach from Aberdeen till eight the following morning and before that he would be there. It was a dreary journey without Erickson. Every turn of the road reminded him of him and Erickson too was going a lovely unknown way. Did ever two go together upon that way? Might not two die together and not lose hold of each other all the time even when the sense of the clasping hands was gone and the soul had withdrawn itself from the touch. Happy they who prefer the will of God to their own even in this and would as the best friend have him near who can be near, him who made the fourth in the fiery furnace. Fable or fact reader I do not care. The one I mean is and in him I hope. Very weary was Robert when he walked into his grandmother's house. But he came out of the kitchen at the sound of his entrance. Is Mr. Erickson? Nah, he's Ned dead, she answered. He'll maybe live a day or two, they say. Thank God, said Robert, and went to his grandmother. Ah laddie, said Mrs. Falconer, the first greeting's over. One's tame and another's left, but what for's more nor I can fathom? There's that fine young man, Master Erickson, at death's door and here am I, an old runk-lit wife, left to cry upon death and he will not hear me. Cry upon God, Granny, and know upon death, said Robert, catching at the word as his grandmother herself might have done. He had no such unfair habit when I knew him and always spoke to one's meaning, not one's words. But then he had a wonderful gift of knowing what one's meaning was. He did not sit down, but tired as he was, went straight to the boar's head. He met no one in the archway and walked up to Erickson's room. When he opened the door, he found the large screen on the other side and hearing a painful cough, lingered behind it, for he could not control his feelings sufficiently. Then he heard a voice, Erickson's voice. But, oh, how changed. He had no idea that he ought not to listen. Mary, the voice said, do not look like that. I am not suffering. It is only my body. Your arm around me makes me so strong. Let me lay my head on your shoulder. A brief pause followed. But, Erick, said Mary's voice, there is one that loves you better than I do. If there is, returned Erickson feebly, he has sent his angel to deliver me. But do you believe in him, Erick? The voice expressed anxiety no less than love. I am going to see, there is no other way. When I find him, I shall believe in him. I shall love him with all my heart, I know. I love the thought of him now. But that's not himself, my darling, she said. No, but I cannot love himself till I find him. Perhaps there is no Jesus. Oh, don't say that. I can't bear to hear you talk so. But, dear heart, if you're so sure of him, do you think he would turn me away because I don't do what I can't do? I would if I could, with all my heart. If I were to say I believed in him and then didn't trust him, I could understand it. But when it's only that I'm not sure about what I never saw or had enough of proof to satisfy me of, how can he be vexed at that? You seem to me to do him great wrong, Mary. Would you now banish me forever if I should when my brain is wrapped in the clouds of death? Forget you, along with everything else for a moment. No, no, no, don't talk like that, Erick, dear. There may be reasons, you know. I know what they say well enough, but I expect him, if there is a him, to be better even than you, my beautiful. And I don't know a fault in you, but that you believe in a God you can't trust. If I believed in a God, wouldn't I trust him just? And I do hope in him. We'll see, my darling, when we meet again, I think you'll say I was right. Robert Stood, like one, turned into marble. Deep called unto deep in his own soul. The waves and the billows went over him. Mary St. John answered not a word. I think she must have been conscious stricken. Surely the Son of Man saw nearly as much faith in Erickson as in her. Only she clung to the word as a bond that the Lord had given her. She would rather have his bond. Erickson had another fit of coughing. Robert heard the rustling of ministration, but in a moment the dying man again took up the word. He seemed almost as anxious about Mary's faith as she was about his. There's Robert, he said. I do believe that boy would die for me and I never did anything to deserve it. Now Jesus Christ must be as good as Robert, at least. I think he must be a great deal better if he's Jesus Christ at all. Now Robert might be hurt if I didn't believe in him, but I've never seen Jesus Christ. It's all in an old book over which the people that say they believe in it the most fight like dogs and cats. I beg your pardon, my Mary, but they do, although the words are ugly. Ha, but if you had tried it, as I've tried it, you would know better, Erick. I think I should, dear, but it's too late now. I must just go and see. There's no other way left. The terrible cough came again. As soon as the fit was over, with a grand despair in his heart, Robert went from behind the screen. Erickson was on a couch. His head lay on Mary's St. John's bosom. Neither saw him. Perhaps, said Erickson, painting with death, a kiss in heaven may be as good as being married on Earth, Mary. She saw Robert and did not answer. Then Erickson saw him. He smiled, but Mary grew very pale. Robert came forward, stooped and kissed Erickson's forehead, kneeled and kissed Mary's hand, rose, and went out. From that moment, they were both dead to him. Dead, I say, not lost. Not estranged, but dead. That is, awful and holy. He wept for Erick. He did not weep for Mary yet, but he found a time. Erickson died two days after. Here endeth Robert's youth. End, chapter 24, book two, chapter 25 of Robert Falconer, by George McDonald. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Robert Falconer, by George McDonald. Chapter 25, in Memoriam. In memory of Erick Erickson, I add a chapter of sonnets gathered from his papers, almost desiring that those only should read them who turn to the book a second time. How his papers came into my possession will be explained afterwards. Tumultuous rushing, or the outstretched planes, a wildered maze of comets and of sons, the blood of changeless God that ever runs with quick diastole up the immortal veins, a phantom host that moves and works in chains, a monstrous fiction which collapsing stuns, the mind is stupor and a maze at once, a tragedy which that man best explains who rushes blindly on his wild career with trampling hoofs and sound of male war, who will not nurse a life to win a tear, but is extinguished like a falling star. Such will at times this life appear to me until I learn to read more perfectly. Hum, 49, 5, 403. If thou art tempted by a thought of ill, crave not too soon for victory, nor deem thou art a coward if thy safety seem to spring too little from a righteous will. For there is nightmare on thee, nor until thy soul hath caught the morning's early gleam, seek thou to analyze the monstrous stream by painful introversion. Rather fill thine eye with forms thou knowest to be truth, but see thou cherish higher hope than this, a hope hereafter that thou shalt be fit, calm I to face distortion and to sit, transparent among other forms of youth who own no impulse saved to God and bliss. And must I ever wake, gray dawn, to know thee standing sadly by me like a ghost, I am perplexed with thee, and thou shouldst cost this earth another turning, all aglow, thou shouldst have reached me with a purple show along far mountaintops, and I would post over the breath of seas, though I were lost in the hot phantom chase for life. If so, thou camest ever with this numbing sense of chilly distance and unlovely light, walking this nine-soul anew to fight with its perpetual load, I drive thee hence, I have another mountain range from Wants, bursteth a sun unutterably bright. Galalao, and yet it moves, our truth, wherevert thou then when all for thee thy racked each piteous limb, worth thou in heaven and busy with thy hymn, when those poor hands convulse that held thy pen, art thou a phantom that deceivest men to their undoing, or dost thou watch him pale, cold and silent as dungeon dim, and wilt thou ever speak to him again? It moves, it moves, alas my flesh was weak. That was a hideous stream, I'll cry aloud how the green bulk wheels sunward day by day. Ami, ami, perchance my heart was proud that I alone should know that word to speak, and now sweet truth shine upon these I pray. If thou wouldst live the truth in very deed, thou hast thy joy, but thou hast more of pain. Others will live in peace, and thou be feigned to bargain with despair, and in thy need to make thy meal upon the scantest weed. These palaces for thee they stand in vain, thine is a ruinous hut, and oft the rain shall drench thee in the midnight. Ye the speed of earth outstrip thee pilgrim while thy feet move slowly up the heights. Yet will there come through the time rents about thy moving cell, an arrow for despair, and oft the hum of far-off populous realms where spirits dwell. Two, blank, speak profit of the Lord. We may not start to find thee with us in thine ancient dress. Haggard and pale from some bleak wilderness, empty of all save God and thy loud heart. Nor with like rugged message quick to dart into the hideous fiction, mean and base. But yet, O profit man, we need not last, but more of earnest. Though it is thy part to deal in other words, if thou wouldst smite the living mammon, seated not as then in bestial quiescence grimly died. But thrice as much an idle God as when he stared at his own feet from morn to night. Footnote, this sonnet and the proceeding are both one-lined deficient. The Watcher. From out of windy cleft there comes a gaze of eyes unearthly, which go to and fro. Upon the people's tumult, for below, the nations smite each other, no amaze, troubles their liquid rolling, or a phrase their deep-set contemplation. Steadily glow those ever holier eyeballs, for they grow likeer unto the eyes of one that prays. And if those clasped hands tremble, comes a power as of the might of worlds. And they are holding, blessing above us, in the sunrise golden. And they will be uplifted till that hour of terrible rolling, which shall rise and shake this conscious nightmare from us, and we wake. The Beloved Disciple. One. One do I see in twelve, but second there, me thinks I know thee, thou Beloved One. Not from thy noble port, for there are none more quiet featured. Some there are who bear their message on their brows, while others wear a look of large commission, nor will shun the fiery trial, so their work is done. But thou hast parted with thine eyes in prayer. Unearthly are they both, and so thy lips seem like the porches of the spirit land. For thou hast laid a mighty treasure by, unlocked by him in nature, and thine eye. Burns with a vision and apocalypse, thy own sweet soul can hardly understand. Two. A bow energies, two. Upon my heart it lay a heavy hour. Features like thine should glow with other message than the shine of the earth burrowing leaven, and the start that cleaveth toward golfs. Awful and swart, a moment stoodst thou, but less divine, brawny, and clad in ruin. Till with mine thy heart made answering signals, and a part beamed forth thy two-wrapped eyeballs, doubly clear, and twice as strong because thou didst thy duty. And though affianced to immortal beauty, hideest not weakly and underneath her veil, the pest of sin and death, which make it pale, henceforward be thy spirit doubly dear. Footnote. To these two sonnets, Falconer had appended this note. Something I wrote to Erickson concerning these during my first college vacation produced the reply of which the following is a passage. On writing the first I was not aware that James and John were the sons of thunder. For a time it did indeed grieve me to think of the spiritual-minded John as otherwise than a still and passionless lover of Christ. The lily of the valley. There is not any weed but hath its shower. There is not any pool but hath its star. And black and muddy, though the waters are, we may not miss the glory of a flower, and winter moons will give them magic power. To spin in cylinders of diamond spar, and everything hath beauty near and far, and keepeth close and waiteth on its hour. And I, when I encounter on my road a human soul that looketh black and grim, shall I more ceremonious be than God? Shall I refuse to watch one hour with Him, who once beside our deepest woe did bud, a patient watching flower about the brim? Tis not the violent hands alone that bring the curse, the ravage and the downward doom. Although to these full off the yawning tomb the arrows deadly surfeit, but a keenest sting, a more immortal agony will cling to the half-fashioned sin, which would assume fair virtue's garb. The eye that sows the gloom with quiet seeds of death, henceforth to spring what time the sun of passion burning fierce breaks through the kindly cloud of circumstance. The bitter word and the unkindly glance, the crust and canker coming with the years, are like her death than arrows and the lance, which through the living heart at once doth pierce. Spoken of several philosophers, I pray you all ye men who put your trust in molds and systems and well-tackled gear, holding that nature lives from year to year in one continual round because she must. Set me not down, I pray you, in the dust of all these centuries like a pot of beer, a pewter pot disconsolently clear, which holds a pot full as is right and just. I will grow clamorous by the rude I will, if thus ye use me like a pewter pot. Good friend, thou art a topper and a sought. I will not be the lead to hold thy swill, nor any lead. I will arise and spill thy silly beverage, spill it, piping hot. Nature to him no message dost thou bear, who in thy beauty findeth not the power to gird himself more strongly for the hour of night and darkness. O what colors rare the woods, the valleys, and the mountains wear, to him who knows thy secret and in shower, and fog and ice cold hath a secret bower, where he may rest until the heavens are fair. Not with the rest of slumber, but the trance of onward movement steady and serene, where often struggle and incontest keen, his eyes will open to be and all the dance of life break on him, and a wide expanse roll upward through the void, sunny and green. To June, ah, truant, thou art here again, I see, for in the season of such wretched weather I thought that thou hadst left us altogether. Although I could not choose but fancy thee, skulking about the hilltops, whence the glee of thy blue laughter peeped at times, or rather thy bashful awkwardness as doubtful whether thou shouldst be seen in such a company of ugly runaways unshapely heaps of ruffian vapor, broken from restraint of their slim prison in the ocean deeps. But yet I may not chide, fall to thy books, fall to immediately without complaint. There they are lying, hills and veils and brooks. Written about the longest day, summer, sweet summer, many-fingered summer, we hold thee very dear as well we may. It is the kernel of the year today, all hail to thee, thou art a welcome comer. If every insect were a fairy drummer, and I a pfeifer that could deftly play, would give the old earth such a roundelay that she would cast all thought of labor from her. Ah, what is this upon my windowpane? Some sulky drooping cloud comes pouting up, stamping its glittering feet along the plain. Well, I will let that idle fancy drop. Oh, how the spouts are bubbling with the rain, and all the earth shines like a silver cup. On a midge. Whence do you come, ye creatures? Each of you is perfect as an angel, wings and eyes, stupendous in their beauty, gorgeous thighs, in feathery fields of purple and of blue. Would God I saw a moment as ye do? I would become a molecule in size, rest with you, hum with you, or slanting rise, along your one dear sunbeam. Could I view the pearly secret, which each tiny fly, each tiny fly that hums and bobs and stirs, hides in its little breast eternally. From you, ye prickly grim philosophers, with all your theories that sound so high, hark to the buzz a moment, my good sirs. On a waterfall. Here stands a giant stone from whose far top comes down the sounding water. Let me gaze till every sense of man in human ways is wrecked and quenched forever, and I drop into the whirl of time, and without stoop pass downward thus. Again my eyes I raise to the dark rock, and through the mist and haze my strength returns, when I behold thy prop, gleam, stern, and steady through the wavering rack. Surely thy strength is human, and like me, thou barris loads of thunder on thy back, and lo, a smile upon thy visage black, a breezy tuft of grass which I can see, waving serenely from a sun that crack. Above my head the great pine branches tower, backwards and forwards each to the other bends, beckoning the tempest cloud, which hither winds, like a slow labored thought heavy with power, hark to the patter of the coming shower. Let me be silent while the almighty sends his thunder word along, but when it ends, I will arise and fashion from the hour, words of stupendous import, fit to guard high thoughts and purposes, which I may waive, when the temptation cometh close and hard, like fiery brands betwixt me in the grave of meaner things to which I am a slave. If evermore I keep not watch and ward. I do remember how, when very young, I saw the great sea first and heard it swell, as I drew near, caught within the spell of its vast size and its mysterious tongue, how the floor trembled and the dark boat swung with the man in it, and a great wave fell with the stone's cast. Words may never tell the passion of the moment when I flung all childish records by and felt arise a thing that died no more. An awful power I claimed with trembling hands and eager eyes, mine, mine forever, in a mortal dour. The noise of water soundeth to this hour, when I looked seaward through the quiet skies, on the source of the arve. Here is thou the dash of water loud and hoarse, with its perpetual tidings upward climb, struggling against the wind. O house sublime, for not in vain from its portentious source thy heart while stream hath yearn for its full force. But from thine ice-tooth caverns dark is time, at last thou issuest dancing to the rhyme of thy outvalling freedom. Low thy course lies straight before thee as the arrow flies right to the ocean plains. Away, away thy parent waits thee, and her sunset dies a ruffle for thy coming, and the gray of all her glittering borders flasses high against the glittering rocks. O haste and fly. End Chapter 25, End Book 2.